


Twelve Steps

by flightlessxbird



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Drug Addiction, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:01:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightlessxbird/pseuds/flightlessxbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich is a street rat junkie just trying to earn a buck for his next fix. But when he meets Ian Gallagher, he wonders if maybe recovery really is possible. Even for someone as far gone as him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Accepting Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know in the comments if you like this idea, I might continue it but I'm not sure yet. I've just been reading a lot of drug memoirs, talking with my brother (who was/probably still is an addict) and I've dealt with my own addiction in the past so I guess this is just my way of getting everything out of my system? I don't know, I just started writing it. Let me know what you think :)

                Mickey couldn’t quite pinpoint what had led him to this empty street corner on the edge of Boystown. Nothing had really prepared him to reach this point in life where he’d completely lost control. He clutched his sweatshirt which he’s been using as a makeshift pillow in an alley for the past four weeks. It reeked of dank. He never really smoked the stuff, but when he came across old friends willing to share, he said he’d smoke it later when in reality he was going to hunt for someone to buy off him so he could go after his _true_ love. Dope. Which was incidentally what he was doing right now. Mickey had never been to Boystown though he heard plenty of stories about the drugs going around the Halsted clubs. He knew of a few junkies who used to hit up this place called The White Swallow, pretending to be boys who worked there as dancers. It wasn’t hard to get drugs from the patrons; they used them to make the dancers more willing to come home with them. Some junkies actually did go home with the men at the clubs. Mickey always told himself he would _never_ let things get so bad that he’d sell his body for money or even the highest grade of Dope there was. Yet as he stood on this street corner, staring down a man stepping out of a black Cadillac Seville, his skin crawled with discomfort but he made no move to run.

                “It’s pretty late. What are you lookin’ for, kid?” This guy had money, obviously. Not only was he rich, judging by his ride and his suit, but he was also _married._ Mickey had to resist wrinkling his nose in disgust at the married, rich man trying to pick up a kid in Boystown. Mickey was never really out about being gay himself, but he’d never marry some poor broad just to go out and cheat on her. With a kid more than half his age no less.

                “Not lookin’,” Mickey said, holding up his bag of marijuana so the man could see it. “Selling.” Mickey prayed the guy would just buy the weed and let him leave. He wasn’t about to get into it with a married guy old enough to be his granddad.

                “A whole ounce? Shit kid, how much?”

                “You can have it for $200.”

                “How about,” the guy started to rifle through his wallet, pulling out three bills, “$300 for you, and you can keep the dank?” Mickey stared blankly at the cash that was being waved in his face. _$300_? Sweat beaded down his neck and his mouth went dry. He had to resist every urge to reach out for that cash. Was he really about to break his last remaining moral code for a couple day’s supply of coke and dope?

                “Hey, James!” Mickey jumped at the sound of a young voice coming up the street behind him. He felt the stranger put his hand on his shoulder and he wondered for a moment if he’d been mistaken for someone else. Mickey shuddered under the stranger’s touch and turn to look at him, catching deep green eyes and vibrant red hair.

                “James,” he beamed, repeating the foreign name as if it were Mickey’s. “Been looking for you all night. Got that weed we talked about, I see.” The stranger gestured to the bag in Mickey’s right hand and, angled so the married guy wouldn’t see, gave Mickey a wink and a warning look. Mickey didn’t really want to go home with _anyone_ tonight. He just wanted to get his money and score some junk but at the very least he’d rather leave with the redhead than the old lecher.

                “Yeah yeah, hey man. Thought you weren’t gonna show up so I was about to sell it. Ready to get going?” A junkie was nothing if not a good actor. Mickey and the stranger both grinned and hurried away from the guy who, thankfully, was getting back into his Cadillac. Mickey was kind of kicking himself for not just taking the guy’s money and running. But at least the situation didn’t go any further.

                “So, _James_ ,” the stranger started with a smug smile.

                “Mickey,” the brunet interrupted, keeping his eyes down. He knew he must have smelled disgusting and so he tried to distance himself from the kid, but he kept just moving closer to him.

                “Mickey then. I’m Ian. What are you doing selling in Boystown?” Ian cocked an eyebrow toward Mickey’s bag and he just shrugged.

                “Just needed to make some extra money.”

                “Yeah, I can imagine what for,” Ian mumbled.

                “Alright thanks for getting me outta there, but fuck you man.” Mickey snarled and turned to make his way down the other end of the street but Ian grabbed his arm.

                “Come on, I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean… If you’re selling _weed_ to make money, then it’s not the weed you’re smoking.” Mickey shrugged him off and kept walking, hearing Ian’s footsteps halt behind him. The redhead sighed exaggeratedly.

                “Where did you sleep last night?”

                “The fuck do you care?” Mickey asked, but he did stop walking.

                “Just wondering. Maybe you’d like to sleep in a _real_ bed?” The offer was practically being dangled in front of him and Mickey’s stomach turned. He was dope sick and if he didn’t get something in his system soon he’d start going through withdrawal. And that was fucking _hell_. But damn, sleeping on something other than a cold garage floor sounded great right about now. Whatever, he was sure he could find a semi-soft bed of grass somewhere

                “Nah, I’m good.” Mickey started walking again but Ian was quick to cut him off.

                “At least take down my address.” Ian produced a pen from his shirt pocket and pulled out his wallet. He pulled out a $10 bill and jotted down what Mickey assumed to be his address. “Just remember that the numbers here are one more than they’re supposed to be,” he mumbled as he passed the bill to Mickey. It wasn’t hard for him to see what Ian was doing. He was giving Mickey a choice; spend the ten on dope and lose the address, or forget about the drugs and just go to his place. Of course he wasn’t going to write his real address in case the dealer decided to check out the place for any reason, hence the numbers being off. Mickey wanted to be offended, but found that he couldn’t. He knew he looked like who he was; a sick junkie desperate for his next fix. Maybe if Mickey hadn’t been so sick, he’d have gone home with Ian. But fuck if he was going without something tonight.

                “Alright, thanks.” Mickey hurried past him, shoving the money in his pocket. He heard Ian’s retreating footsteps behind him and sighed as he followed the street signs, looking for a reputable dealer he always heard about that hung around Boystown. Hell, he could be the worst dealer in town for all Mickey cared. He just needed one sweet fix.

                By the time Mickey got to the dealer, he’d already memorized the address Ian had given him so he had no problem trading the bill for a pill. His mouth was practically _watering_ as he started walking towards Ian’s place. Once he decided he had the right place, he sat on the front porch and carefully broke open the pill. He was grateful that it wasn’t a particularly windy night or the powder would definitely have been blown away. He licked his index finger and pressed it to the off-white powder, bringing it to his tongue and grinning warmly at the familiar taste. He left his cooker and needle at home (home being the garage he’s been living under without the owner’s knowledge) so he’d have to be happy with just snorting it. And so he did, the drugs entering his system quickly and making him sink further on Ian’s porch. After ingesting all of the powder, he sniffled weakly and let his head fall back against the top step. _Fuck, this is good shit,_ Mickey thought to himself. He tried to get back up so he could knock on the door, but he could barely move. His body was filled to the brim with an indescribable warmth that seemed to carry him over the clouds. For a moment he could imagine that he _was_ in the clouds. That he hadn’t burned all his bridges and that all the ships he’d built weren’t dealers and users. That he was clean, lying in some soft, warm bed. Maybe lying next to that redhead. He had trouble remembering the kid’s name since he was under the haze of heroin, but the red hair was stuck behind his eyelids. He’d only just realized they were closed in the first place. He allowed himself to fall into a stupor with one last, semi-lucid thought running through his head; he was a fucking junkie and if he didn’t get his shit together then pretty soon he’d end up dead on one of the many porches he’d slept on like this one.


	2. A Higher Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey wakes up from his drug-induced stupor, wondering how he was still alive and why he wasn't still on Ian's porch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 6 AM and I still haven't slept yet so if there's typos or mistakes I am so not going back. Also, two things I need to be clear about: first off when I mentioned I had an addiction I want to be clear that it wasn't heroin, it was ecstasy. My brother's the heroin addict. Second of all, a gate shot is like a morning hit of a drug (usually used by people who shoot heroin) to start the day, pulling the user "out of the gate" of sobriety.

For some reason he couldn’t place, Mickey felt surprised to have woken up. Not to mention lucky. His eyes felt as though they were glued shut as he met resistance upon trying to open them, the light shining through his eyelashes doing nothing to improve his headache.

                “Shit, I can’t believe he actually woke up.” A voice carried through the air, a woman’s voice, forcing him to open his eyes. A young, black woman was standing over him and placing a warm, wet towel over his forehead. It was then that he realized a few things; the most important being that he was no longer lying back on Ian what’s-his-name’s front porch. In fact, he was wrapped rather comfortably in a blanket on a bed. Mickey honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed the comfort of a bed. Hell, it’s been a year since he even _saw_ a bed much less slept in one. He also realized that he hadn’t saved a gate shot for himself last night. Well, it wouldn’t have been much of a gate shot without a needle to shoot it with, but at the very least he could have left a small amount to snort. And finally he realized what should have been the most important issue, that if this woman was surprised he’d woken up then there must have been something wrong with his pill from the other night and it made him sick. But he had gotten his fix and he’d rather be sick sick than dope sick. So that in and of itself was an accomplishment, but now it was time to worry about his _next_ fix.

                Despite his throbbing headache, he tried to maneuver so he was resting on his elbows so he could sit up properly, but the woman placed her hand on his chest and forced him back down.

                “You better stay down, I still don’t know what’s wrong with you,” the woman admitted. Mickey wanted to protest, but he’d be damned if he got his ass kicked by this chick. She looked like she could easily hand a man’s ass to him. Especially a weakened junkie.

                “Thanks but no thanks, I gotta go.” Mickey tried once again to sit up but the woman shoved him back onto the bed.

                “Boy, are you fuckin’ crazy? You’re really pushing it. You were lucky you didn’t _die_.” She rolled her eyes and tucked the blankets around him tightly. “Someone up there must like you.” Mickey scoffed as she gestured toward “heaven”. God was never his thing, and he refused to believe that someone as powerful as God would waste a second of concern on a young, tired out Chicago addict. And tired he was. For now, sleeping in a bed with a real pillow and no springs popping out of the mattress was heaven enough for him.

                “If God gave a shit about me, he’d have just let me die peacefully with the perfect high,” Mickey said. Even to him, he sounded a little too morbid. But it was the honest truth. Even if those drugs had made him sick, it was still one of the greatest highs he’d ever experienced. He knew there wasn’t much in the world for an addict like him besides more drugs, so he probably wouldn’t have minded it much if he’d died.

                “Like I said, you’re lucky to be alive. Don’t throw that away.” The woman arched an eyebrow at him, pursing her lips as she stood from the chair by his bed. “Take a shower before dinner if you want, but don’t expect to leave this house until you’re better.” _Impossible,_ Mickey thought. Before he had a chance to get better, his body would get sick in anticipation of his next fix. And the longer he went without it, the sicker he’d get. Withdrawal was a bitch, and he wasn’t ready to deal with that again.

                As he carefully got up and made his way to the bathroom he spotted in the hall, he wondered where he was. He didn’t remember much about the night before, but he did remember that Ian’s place was a small, rundown one-story condo. But he could see two sets of stairs in the hall, so where the hell was he now? He ceased to care enough to question any further once he was under the steady stream of the shower. He grabbed a bottle of body wash, despite the girly label and scent, and poured some over his body. He didn’t want to use the bar of soap for fear of getting it too dirty considering he was scrubbing off layers of dirt now, the water flowing into the drain almost black. He did this several times until the water began to run clear. He heard a voice from the other side of the shower curtain and almost slipped.

                “The fuck do you—“ Mickey peeked out from the shower curtain and was met with the flamboyantly red hair he’d seen in Boystown last night, though in the light it was much brighter. Ian cocked an eyebrow at him in amusement.

                “Well,” Ian muttered, his eyes trailing down Mickey’s chest, “to be honest I thought you were black yesterday. But minus all the dirt, you look like a ghost.” Mickey shut the curtain quickly and began to shampoo his hair. He hoped to ignore Ian as much as possible for now. Ian clearly didn’t get that memo.

                “You always that pale, or is it just ‘cause you’re sick?” He heard the shower curtain ruffling and saw that Ian was peering in on him. He wasn’t really bothered, but he wanted to at least seem like he was. He flicked some water at Ian and huffed gruffly.

                “Christ, will you fuck off already?”

                “Alright, alright. Just came to tell you my sister’s making dinner. I’m leaving a towel and some clothes for you to change into.” With a quick glance at Mickey’s ass and a smirk, he left Mickey alone to finish his shower. Once the door clicked shut, the junkie let out a breath he’d been holding since Ian peeped at him. The same breath he believed that as long as he held it his hard on would be unnoticeable. He figured he’d earned a quick wank after all the shit he went through in the last year; and quick it was. It didn’t take long considering his redheaded inspiration in addition to the warm water.

                After his shower, Mickey managed to make it downstairs where there was basically a full house getting into their seats at the dinner table. Mickey suddenly felt awkward and over stimulated once he discovered he recognized no one. There were three girls happily giggling and setting the table, one of them was maybe 17 or 18 and the other two were definitely older; one of them was the woman who was by his bed earlier. And then there were four guys. One looked about 16, there was a young black kid and finally two older white guys who seemed to be the older women’s boyfriends or something. Two young twin girls buzzed excitedly around the kitchen. But there was no Ian. He needed a crutch but there was none to be found; neither drugs nor familiar redheads, only strangers. Before anyone could properly register his presence, he ran back upstairs and to the bedroom he’d been in before. He was about to throw himself onto the bed and pull the covers over his head, but he stopped short when he saw Ian sitting on the edge of the bed. His breaths were coming out in short, ragged pants and he couldn't help but scratch the itches that irritated his neck. Ian looked up at Mickey with a grin, clearly amused by how big his clothes were on the short brunet. The amusement seemed to seep away from his face though when he realized the clothes shouldn't have been _that_ big on him. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and stood, walking around Mickey in a circle.

                “Jesus Mickey, you’re tiny.”

                “No I ain’t, you’re a fucking giant or somethin’—“

                “No no, I mean your weight. When was the last time you ate?” Ian watched as Mickey shrugged, his fingers twitching slightly as if he were trying to hide that he was counting on them.

                “Four days ago?”

                “Four days? Shit. You must be hungry.” Mickey only shrugged again. “Let’s go downstairs, dinner should be ready.”

                “No,” Mickey blurted out, his eyes going wide. “I’m not fucking going down there. Too many people. And I’m not gonna eat, I feel sick.”

                Ian’s expression softened and he reached out for Mickey, who backed away from him quickly to avoid touch.

                “Okay fine,” Ian gave in. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I only brought you here so Veronica could take a look at you, but if you wanna go back to my place then we can.” Mickey thought of ignoring Ian and just leaving to find his next fix but there was a part of him that tugged at his pant leg like a child and pleaded with him to stay, reminding him that he’d almost sold his body to an old, married man so he could buy drugs. Something _had_ to change. Mickey’s been to rehab before, only because Mandy had made him. Each and every time he’d been, he’d disappointed her bitterly. Most times he never made it past the first two weeks, often checking out within the first two _hours_. But Mandy wasn’t here for him to disappoint. She had promised Mickey that until he cleaned up, he’d never see her. That was three years ago. 23 years old and already Mickey was alone; he had no one to clean up for. No one besides himself. So instead of bitching and moaning about how technically Ian was kidnapping him, he just agreed and went home with him. Ian wrapped their food in saran wrap and brought it with them, but just the smell of it in his car was making Mickey sick. He knew this was going to be long and painful if he was already starting to go through withdrawal like this.

                _If there’s a God,_ Mickey muses wryly, _let a semi-truck fucking smash into the car and kill me instantly._

                But of course, they made it to Ian’s little condo without incident.              

_Fuck, what am I doin’?_


	3. The Care Of A Higher Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's withdrawal worsens and both the physical and emotional tolls become unbearable to handle alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Withdrawal is not only very painful physically, but the emotional toll is unbelievably trying. So expect a very vulnerable Mickey over the next two or three chapters.

                Upon getting to Ian’s condo, Mickey bent over on the porch to the left and vomited violently. Considering he hadn’t eaten in a few days all that came out was bile, water, and a little bit of blood. He finally managed to stand upright and apologize.

                “Don’t worry man, that’s my shitty neighbor’s porch.” Ian winked with a laugh and lead Mickey up the porch to the right with care. He was white as a sheet, and he feared the brunet may vomit again.

He moved to help him into the house but obviously he was too proud for help, and pushed Ian off weakly. Mickey stumbled into the darkness of Ian’s living room. He was light-headed and his craving for drugs was bubbling up in his throat. Fuck, no. That’s bile. Mickey covered his mouth quickly to stave the impending purge of the nothingness in his stomach. He didn’t even notice when he fell to his knees and Ian grabbed onto his shoulders, trying to help him up. But his legs felt like jelly, weaker even. His stomach flipped and he fell forward, bracing his hands on the floor in front of him.

                “Mickey. Mickey? Can you get up?” Ian’s voice was gentle and mesmeric in Mickey’s ear. He wanted to say fuck yeah, he can get up, but that would be both a lie and impossible. He couldn’t open his mouth to speak without throwing up. His whole body was tingling as if it were just asleep. Mickey felt Ian move in front of him, grabbing onto his hips and pulling him up over his shoulders. He clawed at Ian’s back feebly as he was carried elsewhere in the home. Ian laid him on a bed and pushed the brunet’s sweat-matted, overgrown hair out of his face.

                “Mickey, can you open your eyes?” Ian cooed. Mickey fought to open his eyes, staring up at the redhead no matter how much his head throbbed from the light in the corner of the room. Ian pointed toward the light which, as Mickey’s eyes adjusted, he saw was showing through a cracked open door. Thankfully the bedroom lights were off.

                “That’s the bathroom, okay? If you feel sick, you can go and throw up and it’ll be fine okay? If you don’t think you can make it there, just call me and I’ll help. Alright?” Mickey turned away from Ian and curled into a tight ball. He heard Ian sigh behind him and pat his shoulder.

                “Okay, get some rest. I’ll be right over here.” Mickey felt a little relieved when he closed his eyes once more.

                Sleep didn’t come easy that night. To be precise, it didn’t come at all. His head was pounding and the sheets were drenched. His skin was burning hot and his stomach was cold, leaving him nauseous. At some point he shimmied to the edge of the bed and rolled until he fell to the floor, incredibly grateful for the cold tile against his burning skin. He heard Ian curse and rush over. Apparently Ian had been sitting on the edge of the bed watching TV on mute. He tried to help Mickey up, but he waved him away.

                “No, no…” Mickey mumbled, but every word felt like a death sentence for his sore throat so he stopped before he could explain how hot he was. Ian reached out for Mickey’s arm to help him up once more and recoiled at the heat from his skin.

                “Shit… Come on, let me help you up.” Ian pulled Mickey up and sat him on the edge of the bed, holding him steady by his shoulders. “Sit here, okay? I’ll be right back. Mickey… Mickey?” Mickey stared blankly at Ian until he shot up and pushed past him, trying to get up and falling to the floor. He scrambled toward the light in the corner of the room, into the bathroom and finding his way to the toilet. Ian came up behind him, rubbing circles into his back as he coughed up basically anything that might’ve been left in his stomach. In fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was throwing up the lining of his stomach.

                “Just stay here for a minute.” Ian got up and started the water in the bathtub, filling it up. Mickey listened to the water run for some time before it got shut off and he felt Ian’s hand at his back again.

                “Mickey, I’m gonna help you into the bathtub now, okay? Can you stand up for me?” Ian brought Mickey to his feet and helped him get his clothes off. His clothes fell to the floor in a wet pile as he was guided into the tub, moaning in relief when he was immersed in the cool water. Unfortunately, while it did alleviate the burning of his skin, it did nothing to quell the emotions that rose to the surface; the emotions he never allowed himself to deal with before. He was plagued with self-doubt and depression. The worst part of it was that all he could think of was the look on Mandy’s face the last time he saw her. It was a look of absolute disgust. He came to her asking to borrow ten bucks after he’d just sold the only thing she really held with high sentimental value: a silver heart necklace that had an M etched into it. Their mother had given it to her while she was still alive, and Mickey had pawned it for twenty dollars to buy dope and coke. Disgust at himself choked him as sobs rang out, echoing in the bathroom. Self-doubt and self-hate tore him apart. His tremor-ridden hands reached up to his hair, pulling at it neurotically and whimpering. He’d almost forgotten that Ian was still around when he felt the other man grab his hand.

                “Mickey?” Ian asked quietly. “Are you okay?”

                “Leave me alone…” Mickey shoved Ian’s hand away and sunk down until the water reached his chin.

                “Mickey—“

                “Please. Please go away.” Mickey shut his eyes in an attempt to stop the hot tears running down his face, but they only got worse.

                “If you’re going to make me go away, at least let me take you to a rehab center or something.” Ian ran a hand through Mickey’s hair.

                “No, no fucking rehab, I can’t do it.”

                “Then shut up,” Ian leaned forward so he could make Mickey look at him, “and let me take care of you. Okay?” Mickey stared at Ian for several moments before he broke down, sitting up and clutching violently at the redhead’s shirt. Ian didn’t seem to mind that water was sloshing out of the tub and soaking his clothes. He just held Mickey whose shoulders shook with his sobs.

                “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry I’m such a shit show.” Mickey wailed hoarsely into Ian’s shoulder. Ian didn’t know who the brunet was apologizing to, but he was sure it wasn’t him.


	4. Moral Inventory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's mind takes him back to a terrifying memory, solidifying for himself that he needs to get clean and stay clean this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um hi hello there is violence in this chapter so read with caution!

                Mickey had been awake for thirty-six hours now. He knew this only because he’d been counting every agonizing minute. He counted through the minutes that turned to hours, hours of darkness in the redhead’s bed that made him feel sicker and sicker with every moment. All he could do for those thirty-six hours was lie there and _feel_. Feel sick, feel depressed, feel this big empty nothingness in his chest where his craving for heroin was supposed to be. He couldn’t even want drugs now. He couldn’t want anything but to stop puking. He also wanted to stop thinking, seeing as how that was all he could do. Everything reminded him of the bullshit he allowed his life to become. At first, he wouldn’t let Ian take him back to the bed. He refused to leave the empty bathtub for almost two days, and he was perfectly fine with wallowing there. Ian brought him a plate of food almost every other hour, encouraging him to eat. He couldn’t though, his stomach was so sick. He was in and out of his own head for the majority of the time, and he wasn’t sure if he had been begging Ian for drugs or death. He’d take either at this point.

                At some point though, he couldn’t stay in the tub. Ian had come to bring him another meal and found him hugging himself tight and shivering violently. Chills, Ian believed it was. Mickey was having chills, that part was very much true. However, had it not been for his currently disturbing thoughts, he would have reacted to the chills the same way he reacted to the heat; by doing absolutely nothing. He just couldn’t stop his thoughts. As Ian gave him a warm bath before dressing him and bringing him to bed, Mickey stared up into the ceiling. For some ungodly reason, the first memory to plague his conscience was from just about a year ago. Mickey had something of a girlfriend. Well, she wasn’t much of a girlfriend as she was a woman. Which could go a long way if you wanted to have a steady income of good drugs. Mickey had pretended to be straight for his whole life, so he didn’t care much if he had to fuck this broad to get dope. She was in the hospital with mono at the time, so she couldn’t go pick up from the dealer they usually bought from. Mickey had to go instead.

                Now, one thing about Mickey’s drug runs was that he couldn’t help himself. He could never just give them the money, take the drugs, and go. It could never be an easy and safe exchange of goods and services. No, he always had to get greedy.

                He sat in the back of his buddy’s van, who agreed to drive him there if he could bum some weed from Mickey’s haul. He had $7,500 in a bag (which was the remainder of the cash his girlfriend’s grandmother left her) that was basically going to be used to buy as much weed and dope as it would get them. The dope was solely for Mickey and his ‘girlfriend’, while all the weed was to sell. He sifted through the bag on the drive to the meeting place, counting every dollar. Halfway there, his greed managed to kick in. In full force. He figured he could take about $1,000 for himself and no one would know. So of course, that’s what he did. He pulled out the money and rolled it up tight, shoving it down the front of his pants and praying that the dealer wouldn’t count the money. Sure, he’d count it eventually and realize he’d been ripped off, but Mickey would be long gone by then. Yeah, it would definitely work.

                But of course, it didn’t.

                The dealer and his partner counted through the money the moment it was handed to them. Once the dealer looked up at him, murder in his eyes, Mickey knew he chose the wrong guy to fuck over.

                “You’re a thou short, white boy.” His partner started circling Mickey to end up flanking him, so he couldn’t run back to the van.

                “Shit, really?” Mickey muttered, getting more and more nervous by the second and feigning innocence.

                “What the fuck is going on?”

                “I don’t know! Let me go check with my buddy, he might’ve miscounted when he put the money in—“

                “You’re not going anywhere.” The dealer’s partner started walking towards Mickey’s friend’s van. Mickey watched as they exchanged words for a few minutes. Finally, the partner lifted the front of his shirt just enough to make Mickey’s friend go so wide-eyed, he looked like he was actually going to shit himself as he peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Mickey with the dealers. The guy turned back to Mickey and came back, his white shirt now tucked behind the black glock that was sticking out of his jeans.

                Fuck.

                Mickey made a move to run, but the dealer with the money grabbed him by the waist, dragging him kicking and screaming back to their own van and throwing him inside. The door slid shut behind the dealer and he grabbed Mickey by the hair, and violently slammed him to the floor. He then sat on Mickey’s chest, pistol-whipping the top of his head. A flash of white before Mickey’s eyes and his body yielded, going limp beneath the assailant.

                “What were you thinking? Fucking dumbass freak,” Mickey felt the barrel of the gun being brought down on his face over and over again. His lips split, his nose broke, and he had to breathe through his mouth which was filling with blood and causing him to choke.

                The dealer shoved the gun in his mouth so hard it made him gag, pinning his throat to the floor of the van. The van was moving and every breath was a punishment in and of itself. In his beaten, semi-conscious state, Mickey’s mind tried to escape with a memory, or maybe it was just a fantasy, in which he’s a child riding in the passenger seat of his mother’s car on their way to the park. He was excited, cheerful, maybe even fucking happy for once, and he reached across the seat to hold his mother’s hand.

                But as he regained his sense of reality, he saw it was the other dealer’s hand he had grabbed. Mickey clenched his hand with every ounce of strength left because the dealer on top of him had just given him directions. To Mickey’s house. He knew exactly why they were going to his house. That’s the worst part of being a Milkovich; everyone knows who you and your family are.

                “Please, please don’t hurt her! I swear to God, please! I fucking—“ Mickey clawed at the dealer’s hand viciously. “I’m so fucking sorry, please! Please God, please. Fucking kill me if you want just don’t fucking hurt Mandy.” The dealer stared back at Mickey, his eyes holding the expression of a man facing judgment before God.

                “You better _thank_ God you didn’t get away with my fucking cash. Now get the fuck out.” The van didn’t stop in front of Mickey’s house. Rather, they opened the doors and threw him out going 25 miles an hour.

                And the only thought he could muster before he lost consciousness was that he still had the thousand dollars in his jeans. That wasn’t even anywhere near rock bottom.

                Something had to change, he knew. In fact, everything had to change. His life was built entirely around this loathsome little substance. It owned him, controlled him, his poisonous prince that could take away any pain he could imagine. He was going to have to reconsider and reform his entire life style and trade it in for sobriety, for recovery. He had to keep the promise this time, he was going to get clean once and for all.

                Or he was going to die trying.


	5. The Exact Nature Of Our Wrongs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is finally released from the jaws of withdrawal, but is still far from clean. Ian intends to help Mickey despite him thinking he doesn't deserve the help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it's been forever since I updated this even though it's probably only been a few days. Anyway I hope you enjoy this chapter, I'm still not sure how I feel about it.

                It’s several days before Mickey can bring himself to sit up without any help from Ian. When he finally does, he sees that the redhead is curled up asleep at the foot of the bed like a family dog. His cold sweats had passed and the room was dead silent, save for the ticking of a clock behind the bed and the low electronic hum coming from the muted television. Now that he could open his eyes without his world spinning out of control, he could see the room more clearly even though it was illuminated only by the television. There were several framed family photos along the dresser across the room, and a few drawings framed on the wall behind them. He got up from the bed despite his dizziness and headed over to look at them. He recognized most of the people in the photos as people from Ian’s family’s house. _They look nice_ , he thought with a tinge of jealousy. It’s been years since Mickey was a part of his own family. Or any family, for that matter.

                He leaned up on his toes, squinting so he could see the drawings in what little light the television provided. It was the same picture drawn over and over again, except each sketch became slightly better than the last. The first one was just kind of a big orange blob, and the last one was identifiably Ian. The caption below it read “Liam Gallagher age 5”. He figured Liam must have been the youngest kid in he saw in the house, but couldn’t figure why Ian would have framed some little kid’s drawings unless they were related and Mickey just couldn’t see how that was possible. If they were related, by some genetic miracle or perhaps adoption, then Ian’s last name must be Gallagher too.

                Mickey was looking at a drawing of Ian which curiously had him in what Mickey thought to be an army uniform when he felt indescribable pangs of pain and emptiness in his gut. Hungry. He was so fucking hungry that he had to kneel down on the floor and clutch his gurgling stomach. How many days had he been in that bed without eating? He remembered Ian bringing him food but he couldn’t remember taking more than a bite before feeling sicker or falling back into his stupor.

                “Gallagher,” Mickey choked out, his voice cracking from disuse. He moved so he was sitting back against the dresser. He took a good look at Ian now for the first time since he came to his condo. The guy looked disheveled and haggard, like he hadn’t slept in days. He looked exhausted. Mickey hoped that the stupid fucker hadn’t watched over him the whole time. Didn’t this guy have a life? A job? Jesus, Mickey’s stomach was in a thousand knots and he felt sick. He needed to eat. Mickey reached up behind him and opened one of the dresser drawers, rooting around for a t-shirt that he could throw at Gallagher and hopefully wake him up. He managed to pull out several other clothes items with the shirt that fell over his head and he cursed quietly. Didn’t this asshole fold his clothes? Mickey went about reaching around to put the clothes back when he noticed the pleasant smell and warmth of the white wife beater that fell on his face. He couldn’t help but sigh, inhaling the warmth of freshly cleaned clothes and a vague, somewhat cologne-like scent. He shook his head quickly and put the clothes back, blaming his thoughts on a hunger-induced delirium. He shut the drawer and balled up the shirt he had originally grabbed, chucking it at the sleeping Gallagher’s head.

                Ian awoke with a start and his first instinct was to look over where Mickey was supposed to be sleeping. He then rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, finally noticing Mickey clutching his stomach over at his dresser.

                “You got any Slim Jims in this shit hole?” Mickey asked hoarsely. Ian stared at him, his cheeks puffing up with air before he huffed it all out, trying to gather his thoughts.

                “Uh, I got these like, mushroom and spinach pie things. Want one?” Ian yawned and stretched as he stood, scratching his exposed stomach as his shirt hiked up. Mickey couldn’t deny that he liked what he saw. The guy was built nicely; not disgustingly muscular yet not a skinny little twig. He had lean muscles in all the right places and, as Mickey’s eyes travelled down his body to see that Ian was wearing boxers, he worried his bottom lip with the thought that he had amazing, strong thighs.

                “Mick?”

                Mickey didn’t notice that he hadn’t given Ian an answer yet until his eyes quickly shot up to his face once more and he saw that he was barely suppressing a smirk. Mickey scowled and pushed himself up off the floor with some effort.

                “Yeah, that’s fine.”

                “Why don’t you go take a shower while I make it,” Ian made his way to the dresser and Mickey stepped out of the way quickly. He opened the top drawer and searched around for a moment before he pulled out a white wife beater and a pair of boxers that he tossed to Ian. The same wife beater that Mickey found before, he realized with embarrassment. Mickey muttered his thanks before scurrying off to the bathroom to take a shower.

                He was definitely feeling better, but he still felt an itch deep in his body that begged for heroin. The shower ran hot against his skin but Mickey didn’t mind. He hoped the scalding water would distract from his craving, but it seemed to be useless against his addiction. His hunger and desire to shoot up were overwhelming and before he knew it, he was sitting on the floor of the bathtub with his knees pulled tight to his chest. Then he remembered. Fuck. He broke down right here, clinging to Ian like some child with separation anxiety. His skin grew pink, and not just because of the hot water. How pathetic of him to have acted the way that he did. Sobbing into Ian’s shoulder. The guy was probably just letting him stay because of how fucking pathetic he was. Well, at least he let him stay. Anyone else would likely have kicked Mickey out a long time ago.

                A clamor somewhere else in the bathroom startled Mickey and he shot up from where he was sitting, which was pretty fucking stupid and induced a headache. Ian was at the sink and hurriedly picked up the stuff he’d dropped. Mickey crossed his arms over his chest, facing Ian with his signature scowl and no longer caring that he was naked. The bathroom had filled with quite a bit of steam from the heat of the shower. Ian arched an eyebrow at Mickey, his eyes lingering on the brunet’s body for far too long before he turned to wipe the fog away from the mirror.

                “That water hot enough for you?” He teased Mickey with a smile and got to work on shaving his scruff. Mickey was pretty sure he remembered Ian having a smooth face when they first met.

                “How long have I been here?” Mickey asked, suddenly aware how badly need to shave and cut his hair. His hair was just at his shoulders and he was scruffier than Ian. He soaped himself up, watching Ian through the steam.

                “Nine days and counting.”

                “You’re fucking with me, there’s no way it’s been that long.”

                “Tell that to your empty stomach.” Mickey was overly aware of just how much he needed to eat, and Ian reminding him wasn’t helping. It growled loudly as if an addendum to Ian’s statement. Ian looked over at his stomach pointedly but then his eyes fell and Mickey knew he wasn’t looking at his stomach. Mickey felt his dick twitch under the redhead’s gaze and he huffed and turned around, but Ian’s smirk only grew. Mickey looked over his shoulder to see Ian still watching him.

                “Why don’t you take a picture for your spank bank?”

                “Don’t tempt me,” Ian winked. Mickey found that his mouth had been hanging open stupidly and he quickly turned his head back to the stream of water, washing the soap from his body and washing his hair.

                When Mickey finally shut the water off and turned to grab a towel, he saw that Ian had finished shaving but he was still there, hanging by the door.

                “The fuck are you doing there?” Mickey asked, holding the towel in front of his crotch.

                “Just admiring the view,” he answered nonchalantly as he walked out of the bathroom. “Food’s almost done.” Mickey dried off quickly despite his sensitive skin. Maybe he shouldn’t have left the water so hot. The steam began to clear out of the room and Mickey went to the mirror to smooth back his hair. It’s been years since he’s seen himself. He avoided mirrors, looked away when he passed even remotely reflective storefronts. He hadn’t been able to stand his own reflection for a long time. He guessed he didn’t look so bad, he just definitely needed a haircut. And maybe some balm for his reddened, chewed lips.

                As Mickey headed out of the bathroom, the scent of food sent his salivary glands into overdrive. He hadn’t smelled anything that good in months. Unless he counted the wife beater he was wearing, but that scent elicited a completely different kind of hunger. Mickey found his way out to the kitchen and saw Ian setting two plates with these mini-pie looking things. It smelled so goddamn _good_.  Mickey meekly made his way to the seat that Ian pointed him to and sat down. There was a fork and knife beside his plate but he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to use them or not. This kind of thing he’d usually eat with his hands. But when Ian sat down beside him and handed him a glass of Coca Cola before he picked up the pie and bit into it, Mickey shrugged and picked his up too. When he bit into it, his first thought was that he must be dead, because nothing earthly tasted that fucking amazing. His second thought was he must have really been hungry because his first bite took out nearly a quarter of the pie. Mickey looked inside and he could almost taste the individual ingredients that he saw. Mushrooms, spinach, cheese, tomatoes, and it was all so goddamn amazing.

                “Good?” Ian asked with a smile. Mickey moaned out an affirmation and kept eating messily, making Ian chuckle and return to his food. The best part was how warm it was. Food for Mickey was usually cold leftovers found in dumpsters or stolen from cars and houses that he’d break into. But this was warm and gooey and filling and he found that he was done in only a few minutes, chugging his coke to wash it down. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, sighing contently as the food warmed his stomach and body. After a meal like that he wanted to just curl up, smoke a cigarette, and fall asleep. Ian seemed to read Mickey’s mind and tossed a pack of cigarettes into his lap. Ian had already had one between his lips and Mickey gratefully picked up the pack, pulling one out and holding it between his own lips. Ian flipped open his lighter and gestured for Mickey to come closer until the ends of their cigarettes were almost touching so that Ian could light them at the same time. Their eyes met and Mickey could see the flame reflected in Ian’s eyes. Mickey could now smell the same cologned scent that had lingered on his wife beater, and it was intoxicating. It wasn’t until Ian pulled away to end the intense eye contact did Mickey realize he’d been leaning closer to him. He quickly sat back in his seat and took a long drag of the cigarette, avoiding those green eyes he knew were watching him.

                “Keep the pack,” Ian shrugged and got up, heading back into the bedroom and Mickey couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done something wrong by leaning in. It’s not like he meant to do it. But then again, Ian was one watching him shower so who should be the one walking away? That’s right, Mickey. Mickey was about to get up when Ian came back, holding a pair of scissors and an electric razor.

                “What are you doing?” Mickey furrowed his eyebrows at Ian who wrapped a towel around the brunet’s shoulders and plugged in the razor.

                “You’re going to need a haircut if I’m going to get you a job.”

                Mickey gaped up at him. “Why would you get me a job?”

                “I thought you wanted to get clean and shit? A job will help with that.”

                “No,” Mickey shook his head and looked forward, allowing Ian to start cutting his still damp hair. “I mean why would you do that? You’re already letting me stay here, eat your food, smoke your cigarettes. Why are you doing all this? You don’t even fucking know me.”

                “Do I have to know you to know you need help?” Ian questioned. He was making it sound like becoming Mickey’s makeshift caretaker was no big deal when in fact it was a huge deal to Mickey.

                “If you knew me, you wouldn’t be helping me…” Mickey grumbled.

                “Oh? Try me.”

                Mickey crossed his arms over his chest and listened to the quiet snipping of the scissors. Against his better judgment, he decided to tell Ian everything. Better not to have this kid thinking he deserves help when really he should be wasting away in a ditch somewhere. He told him how he first got addicted as a teenager. He told him about how his dad kicked him out of the house when he was 17 because he found out that Mickey had been dipping into the heroin they were supposed to be selling when his dad got beat almost to death because Mickey had gotten greedy and taken too much. He told Ian every way that he fucked over his brothers and sister until they basically disowned him. It hurt to talk about his siblings and how much he fucked them up with his addiction because unlike his father, he actually cared about them. Iggy and Mandy especially were his confidantes and saviors. The three of them always fought for each other growing up and for Mickey to have hurt them so much, he hated himself more than he ever thought he could. By the end of his explanation, his knuckles were white from curling them into fists and he was gritting his teeth, trying not to break down like he did the other day.

                Ian was silent for a while until he turned on the razor and the buzzing set Mickey off.

                “Did you fucking hear any of that?”

                “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to say something?” Ian’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I didn’t think I had to express the fact that my opinion of you hasn’t changed at all,” he said, leaving Mickey speechless. They said nothing more until the buzzing of the razor stopped and Ian ruffled Mickey’s freshly cut hair. He moved to stand beside Mickey and lean against the table, pulling the towel away from his shoulders.

                “Mickey I want you to listen to what I’m about to say because I’m not your NA sponsor that you can call for help a million times and I’ll repeat the same stupid mantra, I’m only going to say it once and if you don’t get it yourself then too fucking bad.” Ian’s face became serious and he put a hand on Mickey’s bare shoulder, making electricity shoot through the sitting boy’s body.

                “All that shit you did wasn’t you. It was your addiction. Considering where we were raised, we _both_ know what addiction can do to a good person. And sure, you’re a douche from what I’ve seen so far. But you’re not a bad person. Do you get me?”

                Mickey’s lips locked tight around his dying cigarette. He had never thought that his addiction made him a different person, but deep inside he always knew that if he wasn’t always so desperate for a high he wouldn’t have done any of the shit he did. But no one had ever said that to him. He’d been to rehab centers that never put it like that before.

                Ian took the cigarette from Mickey’s lips slowly and put it out in the ashtray that sat in the middle of table along with his own and put the towel over Mickey’s chest so he could start shaving his beard. Mickey found himself staring up at Ian shamelessly. Ian rested his hand on Mickey’s jaw while he shaved his face with the razor, and the spot Ian was touching sent electricity through his skin just like the touch to his shoulder had. Ian was focused on shaving Mickey, but every once in a while his eyes would flick to Mickey’s to find icy blues staring back at him before returning his focus to Mickey’s scruff.

                “Look up,” Ian directed and Mickey did as he was told, looking up to the ceiling as Ian shaved the hairs under his jaw and near his neck. He shut his eyes, suppressing the purring sound that tried to make its way out of his throat when Ian traced his fingers down Mickey’s neck. It felt good to be touched by someone who wasn’t afraid or disgusted by him. It felt good to be touched, period.

                “All done.” Ian turned off the razor but his hand had slid down to Mickey’s exposed collarbones and lingered there. Mickey felt like Ian was sapping the strength right out of his body because he relaxed immensely, sinking into his chair and letting out a soft sigh. Ian caught himself quickly and pulled his hand away, much to the brunet’s dismay.

                “Wanna see how you look?” Ian asked breathily. Mickey sat upright and opened his eyes to look at Ian whose pupils were blown to take up most of his eyes, a thin emerald ring around the black. Mickey was sure his eyes were just the same. In an attempt to break the heat between them, Ian leaned over the table he was leaning against to grab his phone. Mickey just barely resisted reaching out to touch his sculpted pelvis that showed as his T-shirt rode up. Goddamn, he had cut lines that Mickey urged to trace with his tongue. When Ian stood upright again Mickey forced his eyes to the phone that Ian had handed him. The camera had been opened and he could see that Ian did a damn good job with his hair. It was shorn on the sides and a little longer at the top, similar to Ian’s own haircut, and Mickey liked it. It was the best his hair ever looked.

                “Thanks,” Mickey nodded and locked the phone, handing it back to Ian. Their fingers brushed momentarily and Ian held his breath as Mickey’s finger lingered against his. Finally Mickey let go of the phone, leaving it in Ian’s hand as he pushed away from the table and stood up. “Go to sleep, I’ll clean up the hair.”

                “No Mickey, I’ll—“

                “Go the fuck to sleep, I’m not an invalid. I can sweep up some fucking hair,” Mickey snapped, though it had no real bite to it. He just wanted the guy to go to bed before he passed out, which he looked close to doing.

                “Alright, alright. Broom and pan are in the closet,” Ian pointed to a closet at the far end of the kitchen and got up, stepping around Mickey’s hair and walking back to the bedroom, shedding his shirt at the threshold of the door. Mickey caught a glimpse of Ian’s back muscles contracting as he stretched before he disappeared out of his sight. Mickey let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and went to get the broom and pan, starting on cleaning up his hair on the floor. Christ, there was a lot.

                When Mickey finally finished sweeping up the hair, he threw the remains into the trash and stretched, putting the broom and pan away. Upon walking into the bedroom, he found Ian already sleeping at the foot of the bed like he had been earlier. Mickey scowled. It was Ian’s bed, why the fuck was he sleeping at the foot of it like some kicked puppy? Mickey pulled off his wife beater and picked up Ian’s shirt, setting them both on the dresser before heading to where Ian was sleeping. Mickey pulled the covers back and shook Ian lightly. Ian clearly wasn’t waking up any time soon, so Mickey crawled on the bed and hooked his arms under Ian’s armpits, pulling him so that he was lying properly with his head on the pillows. He pulled the covers up over Ian’s body, but not before taking a moment to appreciate it.

                “Dumbass,” Mickey whispered, almost fondly, before crawling to the foot of the bed and curling up there, watching the muted television until its low humming lulled him to sleep.


	6. Defects Of Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey can't think straight as his cravings hit him in full force. He comes to realize that Ian and heroin have many of the same effects on him, except for one big difference.

                “You know,” Mickey grumbled while he looked around Ian’s office in agitation, “you never said that getting me a job would entail me being your personal fuckin’ slave.” Ian snorted and sat Mickey down in his chair, whirling it around so Mickey was facing him. He rested his hands on the arm rests and leaned down close to Mickey.

                “It’s not slavery, stop exaggerating. All you have to do is take calls. Make appointments, transfer calls to me, whatever. Okay?”

                “Yeah? And what if I don’t want to be your good little secretary?” A chill ran down Mickey’s spine as Ian closed the space between them, their noses just barely touching.

                “Then you can try finding another job and another place to stay.” Ian smirked and stood upright. Mickey sat back in his chair and tried to get comfortable seeing as how he would be spending his new 9 to 5 life in it. His scowl had returned to his face and Ian snickered.

                “We all know your angry face is cute, but try to tone it down so you don’t scare away the clientele.” Ian patted Mickey’s cheek before turning on his heels to go back to his office.

                _I’ll show you how cute I can be when I erase your whole schedule, then I’ll be fucking **adorable** , _Mickey mused as he balled up his fists. It was bad enough that Ian had put him to work being his secretary, but he had taken Mickey out shopping for clothes he could wear to work. Wearing Ian’s too big clothes around the house was just fine and dandy for the both of them, but apparently Mickey had to look _professional._ What’s worse was the shirt that Ian picked out for him. It was a fitting button-up so Mickey didn’t mind it but it was so _bright_. The blue of the shirt was almost as bright as his eyes. It only served to make him look paler than before. All the other shirts Ian picked out were different colors, but they were all still bright. It took Mickey some heavy whining to convince Ian that he didn’t need to wear a tie. He hated wearing ties, it was like having a silk noose around his neck. Lucky for him Ian seemed to agree and didn’t make him wear one. He still felt like an idiot for what he was wearing.

                “Excuse me?” A woman came up to the desk with a young man in tow, tearing Mickey from his attempt at cursing Ian out telepathically. She was dressed very professionally while the kid was only wearing a tattered sweatshirt and some _seriously_ ripped jeans. In fact, there wasn’t much jeans to speak of. He looked like a fucking runway model with cheekbones that could cut diamonds and lips that seemed to be in a permanent pout. Mickey was unimpressed, though he could have sworn he knew this guy from somewhere.

                “Yeah?” Mickey prompted with a yawn, before realizing he should be more polite. He then realized he didn’t care and relaxed back into the chair. The woman gaped at the “Fuck u-up” tattoo he had across his knuckles. Mickey held back a smirk until her eyes moved back to his face.

                “Could you tell Mr. Gallagher that Brendon is here for his session?” She asked timidly.

                “Right,” Mickey resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What, did she think he was going to gangbang her right in the office or something? _Jesus Christ bitch, don’t flatter yourself_. He picked up the phone at his desk and looked through the labels Ian had stuck to it until he found the button to reach Ian’s extension. He pressed it and within several seconds, Ian was picking up with a smug tone.

                “Bored yet, Mickey?”

                “You have no idea. Someone’s here for a session.”

                “I’ll be right out.” The phone clicked as the call ended and within moments, Ian was stepping out of his office with a huge grin.

                “Marjorie! Brendon!” He shook both of their hands with this ridiculous and annoying enthusiasm that Mickey thought he might choke on. “Why don’t we go ahead to the studio and get started, shall we?” Mickey perked up when Ian rested his hand on the small of Brendon’s back and started leading him away. As soon as they had rounded the corner, Mickey let his head fall to his desk. His craving for dope had _never_ been this strong. He was doing exactly what he used the drugs to get away from; working, interacting with people, and losing his cool over some redheaded twat touching a perfectly sculpted-by-God kid. He shouldn’t have cared. He shouldn’t have been able to care less who or what Gallagher decided to touch. Now his arms ached, as if begging him to fuck off from this job and use what little money Ian had given him to go out a score.

                Mickey tried to shake the thoughts away. He stood up and decided to distract himself by going to see what Ian and this client were doing. With all of Mickey’s complaining about his clothes and his job, he never did find out what it was that Ian did in this office. And what was he saying about a studio? Mickey intended to find out just what kind of “session” Ian and this Brendon kid were having.

                After some wandering around, Mickey finally found a room labeled “Studio 1.” He cracked the door open and peeked inside. He suddenly really wished he hadn’t. Ian had shed his blazer and his sleeves were rolled up while he straddled a shirtless Brendon’s thighs. Mickey didn’t have time to register anything else about the scene; he was already barreling down the halls back to the front entrance of the office. He didn’t know why he was so upset. Hell, he didn’t even know what Ian and Brendon were doing. But there was familiar twinge in his stomach. It was nothing like the echoing pangs of hunger he felt the other day. No, this cold, painful churning was the cause of Mickey’s addiction. Whenever he felt that twinge, that _pain,_ he would respond by getting as high as a kite so he could ignore that pain. It only used to come about when he was living at home. He remembered feeling it every time his father beat on him. He felt it every time his father would wander into Mandy’s room at night with his wandering hands. He felt it every time his father would drag him along to fag bash someone when Mickey himself was in the closet. He remembered feeling it the worst when his mother died. Each and every time, he’d cut that pain short with a needle in his arm. The dope would make him numb to everything, even the worst pain.

                Mickey didn’t even have to think about where his legs were taking him. He knew almost every dealer in the city and they knew him. He had thirty bucks in his pocket. With that, he could get three pills of heroin, or two pills and a bit of coke with just enough to spare to get a needle and a cooker. Maybe he could even sell the cheap old cell phone Ian had given him. He didn’t care, just as long as he could get this fucking pain out of his body. He made his way down a familiar alley until he came across an older man he used to buy from. The guy must have been in his late sixties, yet here he was still a dope addict dealing in a dirty alleyway. Mickey suppressed a shudder when he thought that would be him in about forty years.

                Mickey finally decided on two pills of heroin and a little bit of coke, and because the dealer knew him so well he gave him a small pack of disposable syringes and a bottle cap. He shoved his treasures into his pockets and shook the dealer’s hand, thanking him before heading out of the alley as fast as he could without running. His hands had taken on a familiar tremor, the tremors he felt when he was about to shoot up. He was anticipating it like nothing else. He was two weeks clean and he couldn’t _wait_ to fuck up again. That’s what Mickey was always best at, after all. Fucking up.

                Mickey was so keen on finding a quiet place where he could fuck up in peace that he hadn’t been looking in front of him. He collided headfirst with somebody, sending them both flying back flat on their asses to the sidewalk. Mickey blinked and sat up, ready to fling curses and fists at whoever ran into him, but she was already standing over him and yelling at him. Mickey stared at her, a numbing feeling overtaking his body. Her eyes were intense and blue like his. Her somewhat wavy hair was dark, almost black, with several red streaks adorning it and her blunt fringe hung just at her furrowed eyebrows. Not to mention she was dressed like a fucking streetwalker.

                She looked like Mandy.

                Mickey wasn’t registering what she was saying, something about him being a stupid fucking asshole and needing to watch where he was going. She then called him a freak and kicked him in the stomach for staring up at her and walked away. She definitely kicked like Mandy.

                Mandy. Fuck. Mickey thought with overwhelming sickness that if he shot up today and ruined what he had going with Ian, he would never get kicked like that again. He’d never be called an assface with the fondness his sister used. And he’d likely never see her again. Mickey wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t thinking straight when he ran away from the office, he wasn’t thinking straight when he bought the drugs that now sat as heavily as an anvil in his pocket, pinning him to the sidewalk. His world was spinning out of control and he couldn’t breathe. Panic had set in and despite his widened eyes, he couldn’t see anything around him. He crawled backwards, relieved to have his back to a wall of some building now. He reached with a shaking hand into his pocket, pulling out the phone Ian had given him. There were only three contacts in it and they were on speed dial. Ian’s home, Ian’s cell, and Ian’s work. He figured calling his cell would work best considering Mickey was the one who was supposed to answer his work phone. He quickly hit the number 2, before a new wave of fear and sickness overcame him and his vision failed him once more. He was too dizzy to look around. After only one quick ring, Ian had picked up.

                “Mickey? Where the fuck are you?” Mickey’s breath hitched. He didn’t expect for Ian to have noticed he was gone, nor did he expect the tone of worry he held. Now he didn’t know what to say.

                “Mick?” Ian was pressing him but a sudden silence came through the phone. All Mickey could hear was the murmurs and footsteps of passersby and the quiet static through the other line until Ian spoke up, soft and mesmeric the way he’d talked to him that night in the bathtub.

                “Mickey, are you in trouble?” Mickey knew exactly what Ian meant by trouble. He should have just asked what he was really thinking, and that was whether Mickey relapsed or not. The drugs still sat in his pocket and he couldn’t move or speak.

                “Talk to me Mickey, where are you?” Mickey heard a clamor on the other end of the call, then the sound of Ian’s office door slamming shut. Then running footsteps.

                “Mickey!” Ian’s urgency ripped Mickey from his panicked trance.

                “I-I don’t know, street corner, I don’t know…” Mickey’s voice was shaking worse than his body was. He was sure people were staring, probably making fun of the dope fiend freaking out in the gutter, but he didn’t care at this point. He was terrified. His veins begged and pleaded for the warmth of the liquid he could have been cooking right now instead of begging Ian to come get him. He could hear the sounds of the street through the other line, Ian’s heavy breathing as he ran.

                “You’re gonna have to give me something here Mickey, I don’t know where you are.” Ian made an attempt at calmness but it sounded so small and broken, so un-Ian. Mickey panted and looked around, trying to focus his vision on anything he could. All he could register was a dry-cleaner’s across the street. He told Ian what he saw and Ian huffed.

                “Couldn’t be more specific, huh?”

                “Fuck you! Just fucking get me!” Mickey screeched into the phone before ending the call, curling into a ball. He should never have called Ian, he should have just kept walking and found a place to get high. No, he should have relaxed so he could tell Ian where he was. Definitely not, he should take out the drugs and shoot up right now. Hell no, he needed to see Mandy again someday without her grimacing in disgust. He should never have left the office. He should never have followed Ian to the studio. Ian shouldn’t have been straddling that guy’s thighs. Mickey should have just died that night Ian took him to the Gallagher house. Why hadn’t he just died?

                Mickey’s thoughts were like a vicious cyclone in his mind, creating a migraine that had him curling against the wall and whimpering as he pulled at his hair. When did everything get so hard? People walking by ignored him, probably thinking he was tweaking on some bad shit. And he was. That bad shit was being inside his own mind, completely sober. Now _that’s_ a bad trip. Mickey’s eyes were shut tight but he could feel the sun retreating as his skin got colder, and the world around him grew darker. How long had he been out here? Was Ian even still looking for him or had he given up and gone home, leaving the ungrateful junkie to rot out in the streets. Mickey was beginning to think it was the latter when he felt a pair of hands come to rest on his shoulders. He opened his eyes and though they were still bleary, he could see a blur of orange kneeling in front of him. He wanted to cry, but he feared he was doing that already judging by the hot, wet streaks running down his pinkened cheeks. Ian was saying something but Mickey couldn’t hear. His panic began to melt away as Ian’s left hand rubbed gently along his shoulder.

                Ian was clearly getting annoyed that Mickey wasn’t answering whatever he was asking, so he moved beside Mickey and hooked his arms under Mickey’s knees and his back, picking him up bridal style. Normally anyone who picked Mickey up in such a way would probably have gotten their teeth kicked in, but Mickey didn’t care anymore. Ian was warm. And not in the same way that heroin was warm. Heroin numbed with its warmth, but Ian electrified with his. Ian comforted with his. Not to mention something about Ian's genuine care for Mickey made him feel like maybe he really wasn't a bad person like Ian had said. So Mickey wrapped his jelly-like arms around Ian’s neck and pressed his face into his chest, feeling all of his earlier fear and tension slip away, and let Ian bring him home safely.

                _Funny,_ Mickey thought. _Dope never made me feel safe._


	7. Remove Our Shortcomings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey decides it's time to accept Ian's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly short chapter, but the next few will be much longer and better so don't worry :) Sorry this took me so long, I got distracted by stuff and life.

                “You thought _what_?!” Ian's dumbstruck stare and wide stance made Mickey feel like a child being bullied in front of everyone on the playground. He sat back on Ian's couch with the thermos of tea Ian gave him. It tasted like shit but it was warm and made him feel less like a caged animal.

                “What the fuck was I supposed to think? I mean you were practically _riding_ that guy!” Mickey spat.

                “I was fucking _photographing_ him Mick, that's what I do I'm a photographer!”

                “How was I supposed to know that?”

                “Maybe if you'd listened to me instead of went off bitching about your clothes.”

                “I looked like a fucking fairy, and not even the faggy kind I mean a fucking fairy right outta Maleficent!”

                “Not this shit again, seriously. You looked fucking _good,_ so good you'd probably have to report me and half my employees for sexual harassment. So shut the fuck up about it. You know in fact, just shut the fuck up, period. This conversation is fucking over.” Ian waved his hands in front of him as if wiping the conversation away, but he seemed to come to a perplexing conclusion.

                “Why would you care if I was fucking him anyway?”

                “I thought this conversation was over?” Mickey snapped quickly. There was no way in hell that he was going to let Gallagher know that he was… what? Jealous? No fucking way. He pushed up off Ian’s couch, his teeth grinding violently. He moved to pass Ian but the redhead gripped his arm, holding him there. Any other day, Mickey would have beaten the shit out of someone who grabbed him like that. Unfortunately, he didn’t quite have his strength back. His legs were still wobbling and he felt incredibly weak.

                “What do you have?” Ian questioned.

                “What are you—“ Mickey furrowed his eyebrows at Ian until it clicked, and he glanced away from him.

                “Just some coke, a bit of dope.”

                “Hand it over.”

                Mickey stared at Ian. His breathing picked up and his heart was sinking into his stomach. He didn’t want to give Ian his score. He wanted to use it, he wanted to get out of here and find some dark corner to shoot up in. But Ian’s gentle grip on his arm kept him where he was. Ian sighed in frustration and started rummaging through Mickey’s pockets until he found his junk. He glared at Mickey as he pulled out the pack of syringes.

                “Are you fucking serious, Mick? I’m trying to help you. This is the last fucking chance. If you do this shit again, you’re _out_.” It wasn’t exactly a threat considering Mickey never asked to be there in the first place. And he certainly never asked Ian to take responsibility for getting him clean. All the same, he took the threat to heart and watched as Ian grabbed an empty glass that sat on the table and he broke off the needles of the syringes into it. Mickey winced at the snaps that reverberated in his noisy head, his thoughts still racing while he desperately tried to keep his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t reach out for his drugs.

                “Can’t understand why you need this shit,” Ian mumbled, examining the two powder-filled pills and the baggie of coke.

                “I don’t _need_ it,” Mickey insisted.

                “That right?” Ian’s jaw tightened and he shrugged. “Fine then. Prove it.” He dropped the pills and the baggie into the candy dish in the open cabinet nearby and crossed his arms over his chest. Mickey glared at the candy dish with such intense craving and hatred for several moments before his eyes flicked back to Ian. Ian was watching him warily and Mickey felt squirmy and self-conscious under Ian’s scrutinizing gaze. Defiant as ever, Mickey drank the last of his tea and slammed the thermos down on the table. He stared Ian down as he grabbed the blanket and pillow he’d been using for the last few days to sleep on the couch. He threw them down onto the couch and plopped down on it.

                “I’m going to sleep, so just fuck off. I don’t need that shit,” he said, pulling the blankets over himself and facing away from Ian.

                “Right.” Ian grabbed the candy dish out of the cabinet and set it down on the coffee table beside the couch. “Night Mick.”

                He took the cup of broken syringes and threw the pieces into the trash, washing out the glass before heading into his room and shutting the door behind him.

                Mickey lied there on the couch for about an hour, the presence of the candy dish and its contents at his back bringing a heavy feeling of desperation to his gut. He hadn’t moved an inch since Ian left for fear of turning and seeing the drugs. He felt that same barrage of emotions he’d experienced during withdrawal. Tears stung at his eyes and sobs rose into his throat but he swallowed them down before he could make a sound. His whole body felt frozen and no matter how tight he tucked himself into the blanket, he couldn’t warm up or quell the shivers that wracked his body. Ian was right. He _needed_ drugs. At least, that’s what his body thought, what his mind thought. He knew rationally that he didn’t really need them. They weren’t keeping him alive or making his life better or even making him happy. In fact they did the complete opposite of all that. Still, he felt lost and empty without them. He didn’t need the drugs. He just needed help. And he needed to man up and finally ask for it.

                Mickey found that he was already walking to Ian’s room, his bare feet pattering quietly along the hardwood flooring. He didn’t bother knocking or anything, Ian was probably asleep by now anyway. He stepped into the dark room and shut the door behind him. He immediately felt this weight being lifted off his back now that there was a door between him and the candy dish. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark before making his way to Ian’s bed. Ian looked like he was asleep and Mickey didn’t want to wake him. He crawled up onto the bed gingerly, lying at the foot of it like Ian did when he was sick.

                Several minutes went by and Mickey thought he felt safe and drowsy enough to finally fall asleep when he felt fingers combing through his dark hair. He was too tired to register it at first, only thinking that it felt nice and he hoped it wouldn’t stop. Then Ian had to ruin it by talking.

                “Mickey? You okay?” Ian’s voice was different from the disappointed and scolding tone he’d used earlier. It was soft and gentle, like he understood what Mickey being there meant; like he could rest assured that nothing had been taken from the candy dish. He stopped moving his fingers in Mickey’s hair and Mickey gave a grunt of affirmation before complaining.

                “Why’d you stop?” Ian chuckled in amusement and moved his hand to pat Mickey’s arm.

                “Lie down properly and I’ll keep doing it,” Ian promised. Mickey bit at the corner of his lip and sat up, almost bumping noses with Ian who’d been sitting up too. It was dark, but Mickey could see the genuinely concerned expression on Ian’s face. They sat there for some time, neither moving nor speaking while they just watched each other’s faces and somehow their breathing fell into the same rhythm. When Ian inhaled Mickey exhaled, and when Mickey inhaled Ian exhaled. Mickey found himself counting to ten the way he did when he was angry, but quickly realized he’d just been counting the shadows of Ian’s freckles.

                “I need help,” Mickey choked out through gritted teeth. The needy words tasted like poison on his tongue but one they were out there, another weight was lifted but this time from his chest. He felt like he could breathe a little better, despite the fact that his breathing was heavy now. The oxygen just came easier. There was a pang of fear that he felt shoot through his chest as Ian paused until he finally spoke.

                “I know.” Ian wrapped the blankets around Mickey and himself, pulling the older man to lie with his head on his chest. Mickey didn’t know about it, it felt way too intimate. But Ian’s fingers returned to his hair, pushing through it from the base of his neck up to his crown and it felt so calming and good that he couldn’t be bothered to move. So he let his head rest on Ian’s chest and shut his eyes, letting Ian’s touch soothe him back into a state of somnolence.

                “So you were jealous?” Ian asked, a tinge of amusement in his voice as he referred to the reason Mickey ran. Mickey became flushed and drowsily smacked the chuckling redhead’s abs.

                “Fuck you, this conversation's over,” he slurred, before promptly falling asleep.


	8. Willing To Make Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian springs some troubling news onto Mickey.

                When Mickey woke the next morning, he was hyper aware of his surroundings and he knew three things that were being screamed at him in his head.

                1. There were drugs just waiting to be taken outside the bedroom door.

                2. He was fucking exhausted.

                3. Ian’s (generously sized) morning wood was pressing right along his right ass cheek and thigh.

                What made matters even worse was that because Ian was apparently so anatomically gifted, the tip of his dick was sticking out of the leg of his boxers just enough that Mickey could feel the redhead’s pre-come sticking to his bare thigh. This was not okay. None of this was okay. The drugs were practically still within Mickey’s reach, Ian was spooning Mickey with his arms wrapped around him, and Ian’s fucking cock was practically up Mickey’s ass.

                And yet, Mickey refused to get up. Despite the drugs being outside, the first thing he wanted to do today was take a shower. A _very cold_ shower. But right now he was enveloped in the same warm safety he felt when Ian carried him home the day before, and he wasn’t about the give that up just because he couldn’t control his dick. So instead of getting up, he adjusted until he was in a somewhat comfortable position. The only problem with that comfortable position was the fact that Ian’s dick was now up the leg of Mickey’s boxers and pressing up against his ass cheeks. And therein lies the issue with borrowing clothes from someone who’s bigger than you; boxers that are too baggy. He could feel Ian’s pre-come sticking to his skin. He was moving on from being warm and rapidly approaching downright feverish. He was feeling way too much shit all at once, and he couldn’t get a handle on any of it. So he just lied there helplessly while Ian slept at his back, none the wiser about Mickey’s current state. Mickey didn’t think it was too bad of a position to be honest, especially with Ian’s face pressed into his hair.

                It was several minutes of their semi-awkward spooning before Ian finally woke up. He groaned into Mickey’s hair and slowly pulled away from him.

                “M’sorry,” Ian mumbled groggily, rolling onto his back. “M’used to hugging my pillow when I sleep.”

                “Whatever,” Mickey shrugged, chastising himself for mourning the loss of Ian’s warmth. He felt Ian roll off the bed beside him, heard him practically moan as he yawned and stretched.

                “Not going to work today, you’re staying home too but you can go back tomorrow,” Ian said as he puttered off to the bathroom. Mickey raised an eyebrow and turned to look at Ian, who was rummaging through several pill bottles in the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror.

                “You still want me to work for you? After yesterday?” Ian poured a couple pills out into his hand and filled a cup of water he kept at the sink.

                “Are you not okay to work or something?” Ian asked, quirking an eyebrow back at Mickey through the mirror after closing it.

                “I can work, just—“

                “Then I don’t see the problem.” Ian smiled, tossing back the pills. He grimaced in disgust as they went down. “As long as you’re alright.” He came back to the bed and sat on the edge, looking down at Mickey. It wasn’t long before he caught on to Mickey’s shaking hands. He frowned.

                “What’s up?” He questioned, nodding his head to Mickey’s hands.

                “It’s,” Mickey thought of saying ‘it’s nothing’, but lying at this point wasn’t going to help him get clean.

                “They’re still out there…” He muttered, ashamed to meet Ian’s eyes. Asking for help still wasn’t his strong point, but Ian could tell he was trying. Ian rubbed his hands down his face with a heavy sigh.

                “Look Mick, I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing for me to do, shoving it in your face like that. It was fucked up and it could’ve fucked you up and I’m sorry.”

                Mickey shrugged and pulled the blanket up around his neck, rolling away from Ian. “Doesn’t matter. Tough love and all that shit, right?” A thick silence pervaded the air. Ian stood once more off the bed and walked out of the bedroom, Mickey’s stomach clenching with every slow step. _Fuck,_ Mickey thought, pulling the blanket up over his head. He fucked up. Again. He wasn’t even sure how this time, only that he was a fuck up. Ian was probably going to kick him out and that’d be that, he’d be a homeless, jobless junkie again. What a goddamned fuck up.

                “It’s gone,” Ian’s voice jolted Mickey from his self-deprecation and he pulled the covers down to see Ian leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom. “The drugs. I got rid of them,” he clarified. Ian pushed away from the doorframe and made his way back to the bed, crawling in under the covers. Mickey stared at him, nonplussed. Ian propped himself up on his elbows and twiddled his thumbs as he avoided Mickey’s eyes.

                “You’re right, about the tough love thing,” he said simply. Mickey looked at him pointedly for him to continue but he looked almost absent from the conversation, absent from the room. Absent from the world.

                “There a conclusion to that, Firecrotch?” Prompted Mickey. Ian turned his head to Mickey but his eyes stayed glued on his hands.

                “My dad was an addict. My mom too. My sister even, at one point.” Ian’s hands began to twitch occasionally as he talked. “I can’t even tell you how hard it was not to get attached to my parents every time I thought they were going to stop drinking or stop using whatever they could get their hands on. Especially my mom.” Ian frowned and bit down on his bottom lip. “Frank isn’t even my birth dad, and I guess I realized early on he’d never clean up. My mom was sick, though.”

                Ian’s hands were twitching much more often, and he kept shaking them out to try to get them to stop. His eyelashes became wet with tears but it didn’t seem to be from sadness over his story, it seemed more like he was crying out of frustration.

                “So sometimes she’d be okay and she wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t take anything. Mother of the fucking year for a couple days. And we’d think she was okay. And then she wouldn’t get out of bed for days and days, wouldn’t eat or move or talk. And the minute she felt better again, she’d go out on a bender with Frank. She’d do it over and over and _over_ again until she finally just left us. Didn’t see her for a few years, but every time she came back thinking she could just reclaim us, I’d get attached again. And she’d leave again. So…” Ian sniffed and shook out his hand a few more times.

                “So… you don’t want to get attached to me because I’m just an addict?” Mickey asked softly. Ian snorted and glanced Mickey’s way, their eyes meeting briefly.

                “Something like that. But you’re not just an addict. You actually _want_ to get better, I can tell. Besides, I already am attached to you. And you’re attached to me,” Ian gave Mickey a smug smirk.

                “Oh yeah?” Mickey smirked back. “What makes you think that?”

                Ian shrugged. “You stayed there while we spooned.”

                “You were awake?!” Mickey flushed and narrowed his eyes. “You asshole. And you couldn’t move so your dick wasn’t practically up my fuckin’ ass?”

                “You liked it,” Ian teased, grinning wide.

                Mickey liked it, there was no denying that. But he wasn’t about to confirm it either.

                “Fuck you,” he said, making Ian laugh.

                “That’s how I know I’m right, when you say ‘fuck you’.” Ian nudged Mickey’s arm and smiled. Mickey moved to smack the back of Ian’s head, but the tremors in the redhead’s hands caught his eye.

                “The fuck’s wrong with you?” Asked Mickey, frowning.

                “Sick,” Ian chuckled bitterly, trying to shake out his hands again. “Like my mom. Only difference is that I actually get treated.” Mickey watched Ian grimace at his hands as if he were trying to will them to stop trembling with only his thoughts.

                “The pills make you shake or somethin’?”

                “Yeah, sometimes. Doctor said I can take something else for the tremors, but I don’t really want to be on some complex cocktail of shit.” Mickey only nodded in response, and finally sat up in bed.

                “So what are you sick with? It’s not anything… bad, is it?” Mickey hesitated, hoping Ian would catch on to what he was getting at. Mickey was blunt about a lot of things but if Ian had some sort of terminal illness he wasn’t about to go into detail and upset him.

                “No no, it’s not like cancer or anything like that,” Ian said, but his expression turned thoughtful. “Or well, I guess it kind of is like cancer. But like a cancer of the mind. I’m not dying or anything though, so don’t worry.”

                “Wasn’t worried,” Mickey insisted with a shrug. But Ian looked at him with a little smile, that smile that told him that Ian saw right through him. He _was_ worried for a minute. Scared even. Not that he’d readily admit it.

                “So,” Ian started, rubbing circles into his twitching fingers. “You think you’re ready to see your sister?”

                Mickey frowned. “Fuck no. I’m a mess, she wouldn’t want to see me anyway. Not until I’m completely clean.” Ian’s eyes widened in a mild panic, but he collected himself and looked back down at his hands.

                “Man, that’s a shame. ‘Cause she’s gonna be here in a few hours.”

                Mickey’s mouth went dry. His fists clenched until his knuckles blanched and he was sure that if he weren’t still so weak he’d have punched Gallagher right in the fucking face.

                “Why the _fuck_ would she be coming here?” Mickey questioned through gritted teeth.

                “… ‘Cause I asked her to.”

                “And why the _fuck_ would you _ask her to_?!” Ian shrugged .

                “I thought you’d want to see her…”

                “ _Are you out of your fucking mind?!”_ Mickey shoved lamely at Ian’s arm, and he was pretty sure he was about to pass out.

                “Relax, I didn’t tell them you were gonna be here.” Ian’s attempt to placate Mickey only infuriated him more.

                “Good, because I fucking won’t be!” Mickey scrambled out of the bed, getting woozy when he stood up too fast. Ian shot up and grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

                “Mickey, you need to do this so you can get better.”

                “What, so I can ‘make amends’?” Mickey hissed and swatted Ian’s hands away. “Fuck your twelve step bullshit, you don’t understand.” Ian grabbed Mickey’s shoulders once more and dragged him back onto the bed, glaring down at him.

                “I don’t give a motherfuck about the Twelve Steps. I honestly don’t even believe in them,” he snarled. “But I know that at least part of what’s making you feel so shitty you have to shoot yourself full of junk is that you fucked up with your family and you need to fix it, but you’d rather get high than get clean and do that. They can help you get clean, and stay clean. Especially if you tell them everything, like how you didn’t take anything last night when you could have. Like how you called me for help when you almost relapsed. Okay?”

                Mickey was starting to hate how right Ian tended to be.

                “She’s just gonna leave when she sees me…” Mickey muttered, worrying the corner of his lip.

                “Not if you show her how good you’re doing. You asked me for help last night and I want to give it to you, so stop being an asshole and just let me.”

                “I know!” Mickey snapped. He made himself relax, let himself be practically swallowed up by the sheets as he started to feel exhaustion set in, just like the night before. “I know,” he repeated more softly. “But I fucked up so bad so many times, how the fuck can I even look at her?”

                Ian sighed sympathetically and sat beside Mickey. “So are you going to stay?” Mickey responded with a pathetic little nod, refusing to look at Ian.

                “How do you even know Mandy?” Mickey asked, fixing his eyes on Ian’s still-shaking hands.

                “We used to be friends back in high school. We kind of lost touch, but I still had her on Facebook. So I messaged her and said we should catch up. Sorry, I should’ve asked you first but I just wanted to help.”

                “Yeah, I know.”

                Mickey sighed tiredly, looking up at Ian from where he lied on the bed.

                “She’s gonna be here at two. What do you wanna do ‘til then?”

                “Can we just…” Mickey frowned and pointed to the television mounted on Ian’s wall. “Can we just watch TV or something? I feel like shit.”

                “Sure, of course,” Ian nodded with a gentle smile and picked up the remote. He held it to his lips momentarily in thought.

                “But only if you let me do something.” Ian only chuckled when Mickey made the most concerned eyebrow arch he’s ever seen.

                “Come on, I won’t bite,” Ian said, gesturing for Mickey to scoot over so he could lie down, “unless you’re into that.”

                Mickey addressed Ian’s little comment with an eye roll so intense that he’s not completely sure that his eyes didn’t do a complete 360. He moved over to give Ian space to lie next to him. He thought maybe Ian was going to kiss him, but was surprised when Ian pulled Mickey’s head so it was laying on his chest and his slender fingers came up to run through Mickey’s hair. This was the sort of thing that Mickey always labeled as “way too fucking intimate”. He would have pushed away from Ian right then, had it not been for the fact that he could feel the tremors in Ian’s hand against his scalp. And he could tell now that it wasn’t only his hands. Ian’s bare chest was warm and practically thrumming against Mickey’s cheek, and his heartbeat was very nearly fluttering. He was probably doing this to keep his mind and his hands busy. Mickey gave up, blaming his sudden submissiveness on his exhaustion and Ian’s pathetic shaking, and relaxed against Ian’s chest as the television was turned on. It didn’t take long for Ian’s soothing strokes and steadying heartbeat to make the brunet fall back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had terrible writer's block lately, so I'm kind of forcing myself to write. Not especially loving this chapter, but at least I got it done. Let me know what you guys think :)


	9. Make Direct Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy shows up to see Ian (at kind of a bad time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo unhappy with how this chapter came out. I may redo it later. I've just had so much writer's block that I've been having to force work out and sometimes it's good and sometimes it's terrible, and unfortunately this time was the latter. I'm sorry it's so short too :( I love you guys for sticking with this story, thank you for all your love and support <3

                A lapse of judgment. That’s all it was, right? Why else would Ian and Mickey be rolling around the bed, tangled up in the blankets in a heated frenzy of frottage and sloppy kissing like a couple of horny teenagers? Mickey would have blamed it on the fact that he hadn’t had a decent and sober fuck since he actually _was_ a teenager, except they weren’t fucking. They were making out, as clichéd as a young couple in a cramped Oldsmobile Cutlass under “Make Out Bridge” in some shitty old romance film. Rutting and groping, licking, _biting_ everything within reach. Mickey wasn’t sure exactly what had brought them to this point, just that Ian had woken him up from quite the tantalizing dream featuring the redhead himself and as he was still in that sleepy headspace of the dream he just grabbed that flamboyantly red hair and dragged Ian into a lazy kiss. Lazy soon turned to frantic. Their cocks rubbed together through the thin fabric of their boxers, the pleasurable friction making them groan and whimper into each other’s mouths. Mickey was ruining the front of Ian’s borrowed boxers with all the precome he was leaking, but the precome ceased to be the problem when both boys moaned and mewled, bucking their hips against each other wildly as they rode out an intense orgasm together. They didn’t stop. If anything, their dizzying orgasms had them kissing harder, their tongues twisting and teasing together as fingers tangled in each other’s hair. To any spectator, it would have been next to impossible to discern whose limbs were whose as they held and grabbed one another.

                But all good things must come to an end, and the boys realized this the hard way as Ian’s doorbell rang a little too loud. Ian rolled off the bed in a panic, accidentally pulling Mickey down on top of him. Mickey seemed to barely register it. Instead he kissed down Ian’s neck, sucking and biting wherever he could until Ian was breathlessly begging him to stop.

                “Mick—fuck, Mickey come on, your sister’s here.”

                Mickey rolled off of Ian with a groan, watching him scramble up off the floor and run around the room to change his boxers and pull on some clothes before running out to answer the door. Mickey sat up on the floor halfway and propped himself up on his elbows. He wasn’t as nervous to see Mandy again as before. In fact he felt agitation boiling his blood that his sister was interrupting what was about to be the fuck of his life. He listened to Ian answering the front door, both him and Mandy squealing like a couple of long lost sisters seeing each other again. Mickey couldn’t help but laugh. He got up from the floor and went through the drawers, changing into clean boxers and pulling on a pair of sweatpants before heading out of the bedroom. He hung back in the kitchen instead of going straight out in hopes that Ian would give him some sort of cue to come out. They hadn’t exactly gone over how this was supposed to happen.

                “Christ Ian, did you piss off an octopus or have I interrupted something? You’re not hiding some hot guy in your closet are you?”

                Mickey smirked, thinking about all the hickeys he left on Ian. Hopefully that piece of shit Ian photographed will see them and know he can’t have Ian.

                “Please don’t call him hot, even though he is, just ‘cause that’s fucking weird coming out of _your_ mouth.” Ian laughed.

                “Oh shit, you really do have a guy in here don’t you?”

                “Yeah that’s… Kind of why I wanted you to come here.”

                Well if there was going to be a cue, that was as good as any. Mickey stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room, his arms crossed sheepishly over his chest. Mandy gaped at him, her eyes darting between Ian and Mickey.

                “What the _fuck_ is he doing here?!” Mickey could almost see the anger radiating off his sister’s small frame. Small as she was, Mickey stayed back because he knew she was a lot stronger than she looked and she seemed like she was about to break his spine.

                “I can’t fucking believe you! This is bullshit, you’re a fucking asshole, Mick!” Mandy dropped her purse and stalked over to Mickey, punching his arm as hard as she could which actually had him crying out in pain. He knew that would bruise later. Fuck, it was probably bruising now.

                “You couldn’t fucking tell me you were gay?!” She yelled, punching his arm again. Both Ian and Mickey froze, and Mickey stared at his sister with confusion all over his face.

                “That’s what you’re mad about? That I didn’t tell you I was gay?”

                “I told you I liked girls the _second_ I realized it, I fucking trusted you but you couldn’t trust me? You’re such an asshole!” Before she could punch Mickey again, Ian gently intervened by taking hold of her shoulders.

                “Look Mands, Mickey just thought you’d be upset to see him after… everything that happened.” Now it was Mandy’s turn to look confused.

                “Why would I be?”

                “You said you never wanted to see me again unless I got clean,” Mickey said through gritted teeth.

                Mandy turned toward him, quirking an eyebrow. “Exactly. You _are_ clean.”

                “How the fuck can you tell?”

                “You’re not scratching at your neck like a strung out junkie and your eyes are clear,” Mandy shrugged, and slugged Mickey’s shoulder again. “Now why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell me you were gay!?”

                “Because it’s none of your fucking business?” Mickey crossed his arms over his chest, now simply annoyed by his sister.

                “It is my business when you’re fucking my best friend.”

                “Bitch you haven’t talked to him in years!”

                “Ever heard of soul brothers Mickey?”

                “What the fuck are you even—“ Mickey shook his head and stopped himself from continuing their ridiculous back and forth. “That’s not the point. You didn’t come here to fight with me about a guy.”

                “Exactly. I came to see Ian.”

                “No, you came here so I could say I’m fucking sorry for being such a shithead to you.” Mickey cursed under his breath. He didn’t want to look at Mandy, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her face soften.

                “This isn’t happening again. This is the last time I believe you. After this, you have no more chances to make me trust you.” She crossed her arms over her chest protectively, and Mickey frowned deeply. Since when did his sister have to protect herself from him? _When I became a low life junkie, right._ Mickey sighed at his thoughts.

                “I know, but this _is_ it,” he pleaded with her, stepping forward to cup her jaw. “Tell her, Gallagher.” Mandy looked at Ian expectantly, and she listened to him explain everything that happened in silence.

                “I don’t think he’s going to relapse again, Mands,” Ian added.

                Mandy seemed to take this in for a while, her eyes travelling everywhere in the room except to Mickey. Mickey hated that word. Relapse. It made him feel sick, and when he did relapse he felt worthless. He’d already decided he was ready to completely remove that word from his vocabulary and his life. Finally, Mandy looked up at Mickey with an exhausted look.

                “I missed you, Mick.”

                “Wish I could say the same,” Mickey teased, earning him a smack on the back of the head from Mandy. But Mandy was smiling, and she pulled her brother into a tight hug.

                “Assface,” she whispered fondly.

                “Douchebag.” Mickey grinned and held his sister close, swaying back and forth with their hug. He saw Ian smiling warmly at them and holding his hands over his heart teasingly, and Mickey promptly flipped him off.


End file.
